


Ever Forward

by Longpig



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Amputation, Anal Sex, Comfort Food, Dom/sub Undertones, Feelings, Galra Empire, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Loss of Limbs, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Up, Mild Gore, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Rejection, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 08:44:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13714125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Longpig/pseuds/Longpig
Summary: Haxus isn’t certain when his feelings for Commander Sendak began to change, but he knows the precise moment when he realized they had. This presents a series of problems... Although sex between crewmates is tolerated, almost expected; actual romantic relationships between a commander and subordinate are deeply frowned upon; and rightly so, he's always believed.Additionally, the timing could not be worse.





	1. Haxus

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Sexus Mini Event.](http://haxusminievent.tumblr.com)

“The sentry uplink reports that your shuttle will be ready in just under ten doboshes, sir.”

Haxus stands in the doorway of his Commander’s bedchamber, datapad in hand. He looks down at the readouts again, confirming that the sentries are operating as directed. Sendak is scheduled to conduct a routine inspection of an Imperial transport hub today—an unannounced tour, to ensure that discipline and standards have not eroded despite the distance from the core worlds. It is a mundane, yet necessary responsibility of the sector commander.

Sendak would debate that necessity. A low, irritated growl emanates from within the room. Haxus waits patiently as he rolls out of bed and pulls on his undersuit, grumbling and cursing under his breath. He allows himself a brief, appreciative glance at Sendak’s physique as he dresses, pleasant memories of the last few vargas playing through his mind.

“Haxus, my armor.”

“Yes, Commander.” Setting aside his datapad along with the distracting thoughts, Haxus moves to assist him. Sendak stares straight ahead, standing almost attention as he pulls and clasps each piece into place. Haxus has done this so many times, he barely needs to look himself. Sendak is more than capable of donning his own armor, of course; but this is part of their ritual—a way to reestablish the hierarchy of command after their more intimate engagements.

Arrangements such as theirs are not uncommon, particularly on ships with sentry crews—the Galra are a tactile, social species, after all—but the particulars of their accord are more unusual. The responsibility of command and the pressure of the Emperor’s high expectations weigh heavily on Sendak, and there are times when what he truly needs is a release from these burdens: to give up all of his power and control, and submit himself to Haxus. Haxus is more than happy to oblige. The most magnificent warrior in the Galra Empire, at  _ his _ command...the shift in the power dynamic is as exhilarating as the sex itself. 

When the last plate is secured, Sendak is ready to face his duties again, the ideal picture of an officer of the Galra Empire.

The inspection begins unremarkably. The hub’s commanding officer is equal parts nervous and annoyed at their arrival, as is to be expected. Discipline among his personnel is found somewhat wanting—also as expected—but after a thorough assessment, the base is found to be operating within acceptable parameters.

Until it isn’t. The rebels seem to come out of the walls themselves, brandishing crude but effective arms. Chaos ignites as one of their number tosses a smoke bomb into the group of Galra. Over the ensuing cacophony of gunfire and screams, Haxus’ clever ears pick out that their objective is the area they have just left—the last stop of their visit, the detention level; where prisoners await transport to labour colonies or even Central Command. One of those detained is apparently an important figure in their little resistance. But while their intelligence and stealth was solid enough to get them into the hub; it has not anticipated the presence of extra personnel.

“Why are there so many?” a faceless someone shouts. “I thought it was supposed to be just a few sentries!”

“It doesn’t matter!” calls back another. “We have to get the Captain out!”

Haxus grins to himself as he dispatches a masked woman, twisting her spinal column neatly apart. Facing true soldiers of the Empire instead of glorified security guards, the would-be guerrillas are already rattled. The fire of combat is in his blood; and victory, he is certain, is assured. When the smoke begins to clear, however, he cannot account for all the insurgents. Many are incapacitated, or engaged with the guards and sentries, but a group of them have slipped away into the fog **.**

“The cellblock,” Sendak growls, looming out of the dissipating fog. A rumble of annoyance edges his voice. “Haxus, with me.”

“Yes, Commander.” Leaving the base personnel to fend for themselves, Haxus falls into step behind him as he strides purposefully toward the detention units. As expected, they find about half a dozen of the insurgents huddled around the security panel outside the cells. Their lookout lets out an alarmed squawk as Sendak and Haxus round the corner, fumbling for his sidearm; but Haxus is faster. He easily covers the distance, and swats the weapon away before hoisting the man by his throat and holding him against the wall. He looks askance at his commander, waiting for instruction, ignoring the rebel’s pathetic gasps for air.

“Surrender now,” booms Sendak, with a smug curl to his lip, “and we will allow you to share a cell with your comrades.”

“Never!” One of the group by the panel, a canid-faced alien with a missing ear, shoots to his feet with a wild gleam in his eye. He throws something at Sendak—it doesn’t look like a weapon at first, just a bit of pipe, a bit of  _ garbage _ … Reflexively, Sendak catches it, closing his massive fist around the thing and turning it over to see what this dog has dared to fling at him.

Perhaps it is the crude, primitive construction that throws him off. Haxus realizes the danger a tick before Sendak, but it is still a tick too late.

“No!—” He tries to shout a warning, but his voice is drowned out by the deafening crack of the explosion. He closes his eyes against the flash as he is thrown to the floor, landing on top of the rebel he’d been holding. Something inside him twists and snaps. Before his enemy can recover his breath, Haxus draws his plasma sword and plunges it into his chest with a snarl of rage.

Behind him, Sendak roars with a fury louder than the blast. Haxus turns from his kill, relieved at first that he yet lives; but his reprieve is fleeting. Sendak’s left arm—his  _ good _ arm—is a ruin, nothing but bloody rags of meat and fur below his elbow. His armor is peppered with shrapnel at chest level, and a jagged shard of metal slices through his right eye, wedged between his cheek and brow bones. Blood pours from the wreckage of his arm, and drips down his face to spatter on his armor. Ravaged though he is, Sendak is undeterred; an unstoppable force. The rebels shrink, pale and cowed, from the blood-soaked titan bearing down upon them. He falls on them in the space of a heartbeat, with teeth and claws and whatever weapons he can pull from their hands. Haxus is close behind, sword in hand. His chest swells with pride at the privilege of fighting alongside such greatness.

It’s over in a matter of ticks; the insurgents dead or incapacitated. The sounds coming from further back along the hallway indicate that the others have the remaining rebels in hand as well.

Haxus turns to Sendak where he leans against the wall, resting his weight on his good arm. He is so beautifully fierce; for a moment it seems as though his valor will prevail even against his own injuries. He flashes a crimson-toothed grin at Haxus, and then collapses.

The corridor looks like a slaughterhouse. The smell isn’t far off either, with bodies doing all the things that bodies do as they lose their grip on life. Now, as the adrenalin ebbs away, Haxus feels something unfamiliar— _ fear _ . Sendak is dying, his vital fluid spreading out in a dark pool around him. Haxus does what he can; he presses down with all his weight on what remains of Sendak’s elbow to try and staunch the flow, but it’s not enough. His breathing grows shallower, his body shutting down as blood pressure drops. He screams for a medic, bellows to be heard over the noise of his fellow Galra mopping up the last of the guerrillas.

His chest and throat feel tight, his own breaths quick and ragged. He is unharmed, but sick with panic and guilt. This should not have happened.  _ It should have been _ me. But this is more than guilt over his failure to protect Sendak. Haxus doesn’t have a name to put to this feeling, but it goes beyond loyalty to a superior officer—even one with whom he’s worked so closely for decaphoebs. Beyond a simple  _ fondness _ for a casual lover. The prospect of Sendak’s death is like a chasm opening before him; a great, terrifying emptiness.  _ What am I, without you? _

He screams, and screams again; and only stops when the masked medic arrives and pushes him aside. He finds his feet, though his legs feel unsteady. There’s a low hiss, and the stench of burning fur and flesh as the doctor puts her plasma cautery tool to work. Sendak does not react.

“Will he live?” Haxus keeps his tone neutral, his expression schooled.

“He is strong,” she replies, without looking up. It’s not a real answer.

But live he does, for a time, at least. Haxus waits by his side in the medical bay, to the consternation of the doctor. It is illogical for him to be here, doing nothing but watching the slow drip of plasma and drugs from the intravenous bags into Sendak’s remaining arm. There is much work to be done back on their ship. Reports to be filed concerning the attack, documentation to be completed about the inspection that preceded it. His continued presence on the transport hub is not required, and will have no effect save to delay these tasks. Sendak will awaken, or he will not. The medic cannot say whether his organs, teetering on the brink of failure, will recover from the shock and prolonged reduction of blood flow. Despite this knowledge, despite his duties, Haxus cannot conceive of being anywhere else; and so he stays.

Haxus isn’t certain when his feelings for Commander Sendak began to change, but he knows the precise moment when he realized they had—in the abattoir outside the prison cells. Although sex between crewmates is tolerated, almost expected; actual romantic relationships between a commander and subordinate are deeply frowned upon. Rightly so, Haxus has always believed. He would have been quite satisfied to have their arrangement continue unaltered; except… Except that something  _ has  _ been altered.

It is the third varga when Sendak begins to stir. He opens his good eye and blinks blearily, foggy from the cocktail of medications he’s been dosed with.

“Haxus,” he half-growls, half croaks. With the right half of his face swathed in bandages, he cannot see where he sits at his side.

“Yes Commander.” He answers as he always has, as he always will; quick and ready. Sendak turns his head toward the sound of his voice, and lifts his hand from his side, trailing a snake of tubing. Without thinking, Haxus leans forward and clasps it in his own.

“Did we win?” His voice is thick and slow, but strong.

“Of course, sir.” Haxus permits himself a smile.

“Good,” he rumbles, low in his chest. “Good. Vrepit sa.” His eye droops closed once more; his grip slackens.

“Vrepit sa,” echoes Haxus. He wishes he could say more, though he doesn’t know what that would be. His heart is lightened, nonetheless, by the renewed faith that his Commander  _ will _ triumph.

After this, Sendak’s recovery proceeds apace. The damage to his eye and arm is catastrophic—the medic says that not even Zarkon’s witch could have saved them—but even this will not keep him low for long. The scars will bear witness to his bravery, his unbreakable spirit. Haxus does return to the ship now; he is determined that everything will be perfect when Sendak returns. His reports are completed with renewed speed and efficiency. He tunes and retunes the ship’s systems for optimum performance, and runs the sentries through a rigorous maintenance cycle. Their cruiser must be the most impressive in the fleet, as befits her Commander.

When Haxus visits the medical bay, ostensibly to report on the fleet’s status and relay communications from Central Command, the doctor gripes about Sendak’s short temper and lack of cooperation. Haxus pays her little mind. A warrior is not made to be confined to bedrest; the sooner Sendak can return to his command, the happier he will be. He listens more closely when she informs him of the care Sendak’s injuries will require after he is discharged. The dressings will need to be changed regularly, and the wound sites carefully monitored. The remnant limb also requires regular massage to help desensitize it, and minimize neuropathy, and Haxus will need to ensure that Sendak adheres to this routine. He accepts these additional duties with pride, honoured to help his Commander regain his strength however he can.

It is almost three movements before Sendak is cleared to return to duty. When he steps off the lift onto the bridge, Haxus is struck by a wild, inappropriate impulse to vault across the room and bury his face in the thick fur at Sendak’s collar, to drink in the familiar scent… He ignores it, of course. Instead, he clasps his hand over his breast in a salute, bowing his head with deference.

“Welcome back, sir,” he says **.** “Vrepit sa.”

“Vrepit sa, Lieutenant,” Sendak replies gruffly. He is wearing only his undersuit and boots, with the left sleeve of the garment pushed up to his shoulder, the remains of his arm swathed in a compression bandage. His right eye—or where it ought to have been—is hidden behind a patch. Sendak sweeps his gaze over the command center, as though looking for something out of place. Finding nothing, he makes a low grunt of satisfaction before striding to his post. He activates the terminal and begins to scan through fleet status and sector activity reports, as though nothing has changed. As though he’d never left.

Haxus feels a thrill of gratification, a lightness rising within him at seeing Sendak back where he belongs, at the command console. He says little throughout their shift, his commands and questions clipped and terse, but this would not be unusual even if he were not recovering from such a major injury. At the close of the cycle, when he returns to his quarters, Haxus falls into step behind him. Though he is careful not to appear eager, he is almost giddy with anticipation of being close to Sendak again. It’s been almost a phoeb since he was wounded—longer than they’ve been apart in years. Haxus  _ aches _ to touch him, but now his need is beyond simple desire.

Sendak sits on the edge of the bed, shoulders stiff and back pillar-straight, his hand resting on his knee. “Do what you must,” he mutters through clenched teeth. The muscles of his jaw are taut beneath his fur. Haxus wonders if he is in pain—it would be so very like him to refuse to take the prescribed analgesics—but knows better than to ask.

The sutures on his remnant limb have healed well; fur is starting to grow back between the arms of the Y-shaped scar. Haxus hums with satisfaction as he begins to move his fingers along the stump, carefully massaging the tissue as the medic instructed. Sendak stares at the wall and makes low noises of discomfort, tension building in his back and shoulders. Haxus frowns, pausing his ministrations. Again he stops himself from asking if Sendak is suffering. Instead, he lets his hands stray up to his shoulders, seeking to smooth away some of the stress.

“That is not necessary,” Sendak clips sharply, shrugging away, and now Haxus is  _ certain _ he’s skipped his medication.

“As you wish, sir.” he replies smoothly. There are other ways he knows to get Sendak to relax. He removes his hands and turns his attention instead to the wound on his face. With a gentle touch, he tips Sendak’s chin back for a better look. The socket is almost completely healed; the doctor clearly knows her work. Pleased, Haxus carefully replaces the eyepatch. “You are recovering so quickly, Commander. Your strength is most impressive,” he purrs.

Sendak closes his eye, and grunts noncommittally.

Haxus draws his fingertips lightly through the soft fur along Sendak’s powerful jaw, then traces a claw up the curve of his ear.

“What are you doing?” Sendak growls.

“I… have missed you, sir.” He falters slightly, taken aback by the aggressive rumble underlying his Commander’s words. “Have you not—”

Sendak’s eye flies open and fixes him with a baleful glare, and he seizes Haxus by the wrist. “I am your  _ Commander _ ,” he snarls, “not your  _ trick. _ ” He releases his wrist, pushing the offending hand away.

Haxus’ eyes widen, and he draws back as though slapped. The words sting more fiercely than any blow, but somehow he wills a mask of indifference into place. “Forgive me, Commander,” he carefully intones. “I have overstepped my bounds.”

Sendak growls again and looks away. An awkward silence stretches between them, until, at a loss, Haxus musters a stiff salute and withdraws. He retreats quickly to his own quarters, cursing himself all the way for his weakness and stupidity. He feels shaky and sick. Of course it was only ever sex to Sendak.  _ Of course. _ If he is exceptionally lucky, he hasn’t just torpedoed his own career on top of making a fool of himself. If he is not—and he has no reason to believe otherwise—he will shortly find himself transferred to the furthest reaches of the Empire, or possibly a garbage scow.

_ I have let my emotions make me weak, _ he tells himself.  _ Weakness is an infection. _ He must be strong, face Sendak as though nothing has happened, carry out his duties as he always has. He will try to redeem himself, to prove his worth.

“Weakness is an infection,” he repeats, out loud this time, but his eyes sting nonetheless. In the cupboard, he finds a box of expensive comfit he had been saving for some as yet undetermined special occasion. A delicacy from his home colony, the sour-sweet confections would normally be a comfort to him, but now they taste only of ash. He eats them anyway. Anything not to feel so empty.

 


	2. Sendak

Sendak is confused, and that makes him angry. He  _ had  _ wanted Haxus to stay; wanted to lean into the touch of those clever fingers and let Haxus take control. He craved that comfort, something to distract him from the pain where his arm used to be; but he could not bear that soft look of  _ pity  _ in his Lieutenant's eyes.

Alone in his room, he leans his head into his hand with a growl of frustration.  _ What else could it have been?  _ He is haunted by the expression on Haxus’ face when he rebuked him. It had flashed from surprise, to confusion, to hurt; all in the space of a heartbeat before he regained his composure. Had he opened his eye but a tick later, he would have missed it; but now he  _ knows _ . He knows that he upset Haxus; what he cannot understand is  _ how _ or even  _ why.  _ A few moments ago he hadn’t even considered the possibility that Haxus might harbour any such feelings to bruise.

Regret sits heavy in his gut. His guilt twists into frustration, into rage. He has no other way to process what has just happened. He must have made a mistake, misread the situation. How could Haxus—bright, clever, quick, perfect Haxus—feel anything  _ but _ pity for him now? He is broken. Disfigured. Incomplete. Disgust rises like bile in his throat.

The next day, Haxus acts as though nothing has happened. He does everything he asked, and many things he is not. But Sendak can hear something brittle in his voice; and perhaps it’s only his imagination, but his golden eyes seem to shine just a little less brightly. Uncertainty reignites Sendak’s frustration. He finds himself snapping at Haxus, the only proximate target. He barks demands, orders him to re-do checks he’s done a thousand times before, takes him to task over performance deviations he knows full well are within acceptable parameters. If the abuse rankles, Haxus does not show it. He carries out his duties, both customary and invented, efficiently and without complaint; and Sendak feels lower than a Kylex tunnel-snake.

He begins to avoid Haxus instead, calling on him only for things he absolutely cannot do for himself, such as dealing with the compression bandage on his arm. Once the proudest warrior in the fleet, now it takes him the better part of a varga just to dress himself; but he rises early rather than ask for Haxus’ assistance. Armor is out of the question. When they reach Central Command, he will be fitted for a prosthetic, and perhaps that will ease these difficulties; but he will still be disfigured.  _ A cripple. _ Will Zarkon still find him useful? Or will he be discarded as a broken soldier, relegated to some backwater sector? He wonders if Haxus will request a transfer when they arrive at the Hub. This thought makes him angrier still.

Of course, he cannot evade Haxus forever. The cruiser’s return to Central Command comes with a summons to appear before Zarkon, and Sendak does not dare face his Lord half-dressed. He wishes that the Emperor could have delayed his audience until after he was fitted with at least a temporary prosthetic, but it is not the nature of such men to wait.

Attempting to equip his armor one-handed is hopeless. With difficulty, he can manage his greaves and cuisses; but his breastplate, and of course his vambrace and pauldrons, are impossible. Embarrassed and embittered, he has no choice but to call on his Lieutenant.

“Haxus, my armor.” He stands still and stiff as a corpse while Haxus attaches the remaining pieces, just as he has done so many times before, his long graceful fingers careful and precise as ever. The uncanny echo of their past habit is not lost on Sendak. He closes his good eye and does not look for a hint of softness in Haxus’ face, does not hope for his touch to linger a tick longer than necessary.

Zarkon’s throne room seems larger than he remembers, the approach to the Imperial seat stretching on endlessly. When at last he kneels before his Emperor, hand clasped over his breast, he feels small, almost childlike; but he will not shame himself by letting his weakness show. He presents a stoic face, jaw set firmly, as he waits to be acknowledged.

“Commander Sendak.” The Emperor’s low, gravelly voice echoes in the cavernous hall. “I have read your reports concerning the incident at the Sivak transport hub.”

“Yes, Sire,” he acknowledges.  _ Haxus’ reports. _ His missing arm throbs.

“You have done well,” rumbles Zarkon. That at least brings some relief—if he were displeased with Sendak’s performance or intending to demote him, he would not bother to soften the blow. “Not only were the insurgents disposed of, but we now know that we hold a figure of some importance to their organization.”

“Such as it is,” the High Priestess mutters, hovering as she always does at the Emperor’s elbow.

“The information gleaned from his interrogation will permit us to ferret out even more of these rats from their dens,” Zarkon continues. He steeples his hands, gazing down at Sendak over his gauntleted fingers. “Though it is a pity that the victory was bought at so high a cost.”

_ There it is. _ The fur raises on the back of his neck. “It is nothing, sire,” he insists. “As long as there is life in my body, I will fight in the name of Galra. Nothing will stop me but triumph or death.”

Zarkon’s jagged lips twist into something like a smile. “Good. I would not see all my training go to waste. You are to be rewarded for your loyalty, Commander. I have decided that Haggar will oversee your… restoration personally.” He waves a hand vaguely in her direction.

“I have designed something that will make you an even more formidable weapon against our enemies,” she elaborates. “You will strike terror into the hearts of all who stand against us.” Her burning eyes flash from the shadows of her hood.

“You honor me with this gift, my Emperor,” Sendak responds, bowing his head. He is not at all certain that being left to the devices of the witch and her druids is any kind of reward. He has seen the results of some of her experiments in the arena, and on the battlefield. There is no denying the power she wields, but he does not trust her dark thaumaturgy. He would have preferred a more conventional appliance, created by medics rather than magic; but one does not refuse the Emperor’s favour.

“Report to my laboratory at the eighth varga,” she orders; as though she were the Empress and not merely a sorcerer. Zarkon does not comment further, and Sendak understands that he is dismissed.

“Of course,” he nods. “Vrepit sa.”

Sendak returns to his cruiser with a whole host of new worries, and nowhere to unburden them. Before his injury, he would have called on Haxus to relieve his stress. He can almost hear his voice purring in his ear, telling him everything is alright, that he will take care of him… but that is out of the question. He tries to clear his mind, but more poisonous thoughts seep in; images of Haggar’s abominations, somewhere between magic and science, wholly in the realm of the monstrous.  _ Is that what she intends for me? _ Surely not, he tells himself. Zarkon would not be so coy. Nevertheless, he cannot quell his uncertainty. He is still fretting a varga later, when the door to his chambers chimes.

Haxus is there, immaculate and impassive. His smooth, sleek fur reminds Sendak of polished slate.  _ Stars, has he always been so handsome? _

“I saw that your shuttle had returned, Commander,” Haxus intones. “Do you wish my assistance with your armor again?”

Sendak grits his teeth, biting back a growl. Of course he is no more capable of removing it than putting it on; and of course, Haxus knows that. “Come in,” he mutters, with a curt nod.

Haxus gets to work quickly, nimble fingers moving with confidence along the joins of the protective plates. He touches Sendak no more than is needed, and leaves the leg pieces that Sendak had managed himself earlier. When he has finished, he stacks the armor neatly on its shelf, then turns to address his Commander.

“Is there anything else you require, Sir?”

Sendak is absurdly struck by the question. What  _ does _ he require? To be whole, to be himself again… His arm is cramping fiercely now, making its absence keenly felt.

“They’re sending me to the druids,” he blurts. It’s more than he’s said to Haxus in a movement.

“Sir?” Haxus raises an eyebrow; questioning, uncertain.

“To fix me. To fix”—he gestures at his amputated limb—”this.” There’s so much more to say, but he doesn’t know how. “I need you, Haxus.” Haxus’ expression falters for the first time since their falling out. There’s a flicker of something pained and hesitant, an echo of that night; and Sendak knows he’s made another mistake. “No, not like that!” he amends. “I mean… yes, like that, but not only…” He growls, frustrated. He doesn’t have the words for this, or doesn’t know how to make them say what he wants. He turns away from Haxus’ bewildered gaze. Finally, he swallows his pride.

“I’m… afraid,” he breathes; a guilty confession. “I’ve been afraid since I lost my arm, and it makes me so… so  _ angry.” _ The last word comes out as a snarl, all his frustration condensed into two syllables. “I didn’t mean it—the… the thing I said. I don’t know how to fix it.” Something hot prickles in the corner of his eye, and he screws it shut in response. “I didn’t understand what you wanted. Because… because how  _ could _ you—”

“Shh.” There’s a light touch on the side of his face, and when Sendak opens his eye, Haxus has moved to stand in front of him again. “None of that.” He smudges away the dampness from Sendak’s cheek with the pad of his thumb.

“I’m sorry, Haxus.” The words are difficult, unfamiliar; but he needs to get them out.

“So am I,” Haxus sighs, still stroking his face. “I should have known you were grieving.” With a gentle pressure he pulls Sendak’s head down until their foreheads touch.

“I missed you,” Sendak utters in a shuddering gasp. When he breathes again, he drinks in Haxus’ scent; sea salt and petrichor.

“How much?” purrs Haxus; and before Sendak can answer he presses his mouth to his, hot and hungry. Haxus’ slightly rough tongue slides against his own, and needle-sharp fangs tug at his lips. He feels as though Haxus might devour him; and he is so, so very  _ ready _ to be consumed. 

Haxus undresses both of them, between fierce, toothy kisses. By the time he pushes him down on the bed, Sendak aches with need, his cock already leaking pre-come onto his stomach.  Haxus is just as eager, the heat of his erection pressing against Sendak’s hip when he slings his leg over him. He kisses, bites, sucks along Sendak’s throat and collar bones, teasing out involuntary moans and whimpers; but when his hand strays down Sendak’s left shoulder, he stiffens and flinches from the caress. He is suddenly, painfully aware again of all that he lacks. He can’t even touch Haxus the way he used to before, or hold him the way he wants to now.

Haxus pulls his hand back, his elegant eyebrows hitching together in a frown. “No?” The question is gentle, without resentment or expectation, but Sendak feels guilty anyway. He rolls away from Haxus onto his side, hugging his mangled arm against his chest.

“Haxus, I’m—”  _ A mess. Disgusting. Half a man…  _ “—sorry.” He turns in on himself, shielding his maimed face. He is certain Haxus will leave now; and why shouldn’t he, rejected again by a cripple?

Instead, Haxus presses himself against Sendak, nuzzling softly into the fur at the back of his neck. He snakes a slender arm around his waist, carefully avoiding the remnant limb. “Is that alright?” he asks softly. Sendak can only nod, too stunned to make any other reply. Haxus sighs contentedly and curls around his body. “I’m so glad to have you,” he whispers, “just as you are. When I saw you, after… When I thought… I don’t know what I would have done.” His arm tightens around Sendak’s waist, and he buries his face more deeply in his ruff. “But you were strong. Stronger than death.” Haxus’ voice wavers as he tries to smother a sniffle in his fur.

Slowly, understanding dawns on him—Haxus doesn’t see him as less than he was. To him, he is still a warrior—a survivor. The thought comforts him, and as the tension drains from his body he begins to uncoil, relaxing into Haxus’ embrace. Haxus lightly strokes his side and leg as they lie together; and by circumstance or by design, Sendak’s arousal begins to swell again, heat pooling in the pit of his stomach.

It doesn’t take Haxus long to notice his renewed interest. He mouths lightly at his neck, teeth barely grazing his skin, until Sendak shudders and leans back against him, baring his throat for more. His claws ghost along his hipbone, tracing a tantalizing line, and Sendak’s cock bobs stiffly, seeking a touch, any kind of friction; but Haxus hesitates, stopping just short of the contact he needs.

“Yes?” comes the murmured question.

“Yes,” Sendak growls, rumbling deep in his throat, emphatic. It’s easier to give himself over to the feeling now; he feels safer somehow, reassured. It helps that he’s facing away from Haxus. When those long, clever fingers wrap around his shaft, it feels so good he has to choke back a sob.

“I have you now,” Haxus breathes against his neck as he strokes him. He swirls the pad of his thumb over the head of his cock, slicking his hand with the fluid already dripping from his slit. His eye flutters closed as a moan escapes his lips, his hips jerking as Haxus works his length.

“Do you know how magnificent you are?” Haxus purrs, his voice low and roughened with lust, but still so fierce that, in that instant, Sendak  _ believes _ him. “How I  _ crave _ you?” Sendak can feel the heat of his arousal pressing against the cleft of his ass; his breath in his ear sends an electric tingle through him that goes straight to his groin. Haxus quickens his strokes, and he groans as the sensations intensify, pressure coiling around his spine. “Tell me what you want.”

“You,” he manages to get out, though he’s barely capable of coherent thought, let alone speech. “Now. Before I lose my mind.”  _ Before I lose my nerve. _

Sendak shivers with nervous anticipation as he retrieves the bottle of oil from the headboard compartment, impatient for the return of his touch. He gasps when Haxus pulls his leg up, hitches it up over his elbow, spreading him open.

“Like this?” Haxus croons, as he presses the blunt heat of his cock against Sendak’s asshole. Sendak can only growl in response, bracing himself on his good arm. He arches back against Haxus as he slowly pushes into him, relishing the sweet, familiar stretch and the feeling of fullness. Haxus rolls his hips against Sendak’s, moving languidly at first, then thrusting faster as Sendak relaxes into it, letting him take charge. Already he feels his climax building; he hadn’t realized just how badly he needed this. Haxus pauses briefly to adjust his grip on Sendak’s leg, claws digging into his thigh. Suddenly it’s almost more than he can take; every thrust seems to slam into his spot and he himself can hardly believe the desperate, wanton sounds he’s making. An exquisite heat spreads through his entire body, swelling until he can’t hold it in any longer; he’s seeing stars, clawing desperately at the bed as he spills all over himself and the sheets, messy and reeling. He coasts on a wave of euphoria as Haxus continues to pound into him, chasing his own climax.

Haxus reaches around with his free hand to cup Sendak’s face. “Sendak,” he rasps, ragged and needy,  _ “look at me.” _ His earlier trepidation forgotten in the haze of pleasure, he turns his head and Haxus kisses him so deeply that Sendak almost forgets his own name as the warmth of Haxus’ release spreads through him.

Later, after his fur has been cleaned and the soiled bedclothes stripped, Sendak lies with Haxus sleepily nestled in the crook of his right arm. He feels more stable now, more like himself than he has since the attack. This cannot be wrong, regardless of what protocol might have to say.

“Where do we go from here?” he muses aloud.

Haxus cracks one eye open, then snuggles more tightly against his chest. “Forward, sir,” he murmurs drowsily. “Ever forward.” His eye droops shut again, and his breaths grow deep and even, his sharp features softened as he falls into slumber. It occurs to Sendak that this is the first time he’s been able to watch Haxus sleep; the first time he hasn’t returned to his own quarters or his duties.  _ What would I do without you _ , he wonders; and prays he will never know the answer. With Haxus at his side, he feels closer to whole. He will be strong again; fearless again.

“Ever forward,” Sendak echoes, as his own eyelid grows heavy. “Vrepit sa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this work comes from some meta I read ages ago when I was just starting out in the VLD fandom, concerning the Galra catchphrase 'Vrepit sa.' Someone (and if you know who, please let me know so I can credit) had deduced that in some Eastern European language it translated roughly to 'Thrusting Forward'; and so it became _my_ hc that it means 'Ever Forward' because that just sounds, idk, grander. :3 So here it is.
> 
> Edit: [Here's the post!](https://marvacu.tumblr.com/post/147409945482/irongoldie-marvacu-curious-about-the-term)
> 
> If you liked this, come flail with me on [tumblr!](http://lotors-saltwife.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> The second part should be posted later tonight. In the meantime, come flail with me [on tumblr!](http://lotors-saltwife.tumblr.com)


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